


Tío Tuco y, pues, los otros

by DanseDan



Series: GBU Lupita AU [2]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: Family Gatherings, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, Quinceañeras, Spanish, diagetic chapter art(?), latin american families, petty relationship nonsense, underage drinking mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26708803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanseDan/pseuds/DanseDan
Summary: tío Tuco brings some odd-looking friends to family gatherings, but hey, as long as you're getting paid for portraits, you aren't exactly complaining.(Modern AU blonco/tucoeyes/GBU trio from the narrating perspective of Tuco's niece because I 1) project on characters 2) talk too much about Latin America 3) love sketchy characters trying to look their best for stupid fucking kids in their lives 4) crave the incredibly awkward expressions of love people make when describing/explaining/discussing their loved ones with others ok)now complete! woohoo!
Relationships: "Blondie" | The Man with No Name/Tuco Ramirez, Angel Eyes/"Blondie" | The Man with No Name/Tuco Ramirez, Angel Eyes/Tuco Ramirez
Series: GBU Lupita AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013763
Comments: 14
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

Visiting the monastery is boring, like always. The mass is too long, the Sunday dress mami has forced you into is a scratchy nightmare that fluffs up in every directíon- too white, too frilly- and for all the promises of carimañolas and spare cut-off bits of hostia you hadn’t seen a bit of food since waking up at daybreak to drive up here. The one solace is you were allowed your notebook, and could therefore scuttle around the dusty halls trying to copy all the best paintings of saints and virgins to hang up in your room back home: the retablo de la vírgen in the entryway, with the pink-nosed lambs, the gory crucifixion in the visiting-room, and of course your favorite but the trickiest, the mosaic mural in the entrance to the crypts, with the black horses reared dramatically backwards and their crazy faces. 

It was only halfway through your grand tour that you stumbled back into the sitting-room with all your relatives, the snotty whine of some second-cousin or another trying to bang out a recital of cielito lindo on the guitar clumsily as all the adults crowded around. Distracted by the sight, it was a sudden shadow coming over you (a shadow scented in soap and sweat and nasty grown-up cigarrillo smell) that broke you out of your haze.

“tío Tuco!”

“Hey kid! How’s my favorite mocosita?”

“no tengo mocos!”

A skittish mess of arms and belly-fat, a groan of effort, the tickle of a (súper ridiculous!) mustache on your shoulder and you were up in the air, staring at your favorite (you knew you weren’t supposed to pick, but tío Pablo and Tia Clarita were SO SO SO boring) uncle’s face. Round-cheeked, brown, smiling wickedly up at you.

“when the hell’d you get so heavy, kid?”

A surge of pride “Osea! I’m a big girl now. Put me down tío, mira, you’ll see.” And upon his compliance, giving a twirl (one good use of this stupid dress)

“very impressive. And what’s that?”

A moment of hesitatíon, some pouting, but you knew you could trust tío Tuco. He was a cool uncle. So you motíoned for him to stoop down a little and flipped through the pages for him, lingering on your best work. 

“what do you think?”

“Ey, kid, you’ve got a talent!” his face had lit up and yours followed suit. He must be telling the truth, this was really something. “Actually kid, this is perfect!”

“of course it is!-“

“could you do me a favor?”

Now this was interesting. you tried to look businesslike.

“a favor, tío?”

“yeah, see that ugly gringo over there?”

A tall blonde man was on the other side of the room, standing next to tío Pablo with a stern face. He looked like one of the villains in the spy movies dad liked to watch, all scruffy with barbuza and dark around the eyes. 

“el fulo ese?”

“yeah,” he said, sounding oddly proud. “think you can draw him from me?” and with this, he drew a crumpled $5 bill from his pocket.

You gasped. That’s a fair bit of money- like, one month of snacks at the school kiosko money. You could even get an ice cream at the parlor on the way home if you were sneaky about it.

“neta tío?”

He nodded solemnly “en serio, you have your word”

“okay…” you make sure to shake on it (you have to shake on it!) and the wave him off. “go distract him so I can do the drawing!”

And so he dutifully waddled over to his brother and the taller man while you pulled out your crayon and went to work. Why did tío Tuco want a picture of this guy anyway? That was always important with drawing people, what they wanted to see. If it was a prank, you could add in all the smeary darkness under his eyes, the scowl he was shooting in your uncles’ directíon even with a polite nod, but el tío would’ve never missed the chance to make fun of him himself and 'ugly' hardly cut it (there was a reason you weren’t supposed to hang out with him too much, your mom preferred to avoid his brand of... out-of-school vocabulary lessons), so it must be something else. And they kept staring at each other over there, while tío Pablo yammered on about Christmas or something. Was it a present, then? The gringo had pretty green eyes. So squinty though, but you could fake it in the drawing since tio Tuco seemed so trained on them.

Finally satisfied with your work, you signed it off and strolled over proudly, planting a big, stretched out hug on the stranger’s leg (tío Tuco didn’t have to tell you to lie, but you knew somehow to do it like this, and that it’d make him proud of you to pull it off well).

“mira tío! I made you a drawing.” You shot the stranger a sickly sweet smile as he drew away from a dark-smelling cigarillo and looked down at you, with the torn notebook page outstretched.

“well, I’ll say, it does have quite a likeness to him”

“A heck of a kid, ey, Blondie?”

But the gringo stayed quiet, and you squirmed on your toes for a while wondering if the hug had stretched the bit a little too far. He was staring at the drawing, and then at you, and then back at tío Tuco with this funny look you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

“Tee-yoh?” he finally drawled, smiling like he’d won something, but still looking at tío Tuco.

“Ach, c’mon Blondie. Kids say that to anybody down here.” He made a show of slapping the stranger on the arm, but tío Tuco seemed happy. It seemed your scheme had worked out. ‘Blondie’ gingerly took the piece of paper and tucked it into a raggedy brown wallet- still, somehow, staring at your uncle all the while (you knew it was a good idea to play up the eyes)- and then leaning down with a calloused hand to muss up your hair, comforting and scratchy and a little warm. 

And when the afternoon arrived and you were going, tío Tuco caught you in the entranceway and crouched down to your level, two hands holding your much smaller palm.

“you’re a pretty smart kid, ey, mocosa?”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “yeah I am!” before running off to the car with your parents, holding tightly onto the sticky piece of cotton-paper in your hands, only unwrapping it once you got into the backseat of the car. Finally your… ten dollars?

You were practically rich! God bless tío Tuco!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Writing something that isn't PWP? anyhow sorry to the monjitas for using my chilhood chilling with y'all as fun factoids to use in gay cowboy fic. Your hostia clippings were super addictive even though they tasted like crispy paper towel. Amen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got lost in the sauce and wrote it all today sorry jskadnkjsdfl Maybe It Is Bad? God if I fucking know but it sure exists dsnkjdsnkjdsnkjdskjdskjdskjdskdskdskdsk

Shit. Shit. It was frigid out here, maybe even more than in the event hall. Quién verga holds a chingada fucking quinceañera in the middle of winter in Sonora for shit’s sake you’re in the middle of the fucking Sierra Madre-

“Is that really you, kid?”

Quién verga?- oh shit. Now this was a sight for sore eyes. Tío Tuco, short as fucking ever, same terrible ranchero mustache, in a surprisingly well-fit suit, for once. Jittery with cold, or from lack of nicotine maybe, scratching at the lining of his blazer to get a cigarette. You couldn’t help but smile.

“que hay, Tío… It’s- ehm- been a while, huh?“

“Been ages! Last time I saw you- shit, mocosita that you were, you didn’t even reach me until here-“ wildly gesturing, working himself up for- “and now- well, oh.”

Smiling like an idiot from your now standing position, looking down at him from almost a head of distance.

“…seems you took after your dad, eh?”

Bigger smile, here again the joy of out-hustling your slimeball of an uncle, bringing up the hem of the dress to reveal-

“Shit, kid, how the hell do you walk in those?”

“oh it’s absolute hell but absolutely worth it.”

He shoots you a look.

“And I know you’d do it too, in my position”

That made him finally break out of the poker face, his smile bright as always, mellowing at the edges.

“what I’d do in your position is go enjoy myself! Que peda esta, and you’re out here skulking- anyone I need to give the business? I’ll do it, even Estelita herself, I’ll yank the crown riiight off her head and-“

A quick gesture, raucous laughter from both of you, yourself half in tears.

“no, tío, I won’t uh. Be requiring such services. I’m just tired.”

“ya veo. Well, mind if I?” he finally found the cigarette, it seems.

“sure.”

Sitting side by side on the ledge, you finally turn your attention back to your work. Wow, you suck at landscapes. This is way too embarrassing to show to-

“Oh, kid, you still draw?”

And of course he’s leaning over your shoulder to try and see it. He’d always been un metejón, so nosy (ignoring the fact that you’d definitely inherited this from his as well). You smile sheepishly and hand it over.

“Not that I’m particularly good at it or anything…”

“are you kidding, kid? You’ve gotten so much better- hey, that’s Camila, right? Still making portraits…”

“I guess…” you could see the glint in his eyes come up, bringing back memories. Your first commission, in a way. “what’s your- uh- friend up to, anyhow?” wow. Real smooth on that one, chucha madre, you’d get slapped for that implication if you were in front of your parents. Shit shit-

“Angel Eyes? I don’t remember introducing you-“ He seemed only mildly surprised, not taking offense at least.

But a la bestia, that nickname, you couldn’t hold in your laughter as the memory came flooding back (you knew playing up the eyes was a good idea!). It was only then that he had enough sense to look sheepish.

“Oye, chiquilla, I know it’s excentric but-“

“no, no, it totally suits him, I mean-“ still laughing, wow did the dress not offer any help trying to breathe through it. “big green eyes and all-“

“green?”

And here a pause, and a sort of wilting of his expression that shook you from your mirth. Oh shit, had the gringo left him or something? Had he died? Chucha cucha cucha you done fucked up for real this time.

“tío, I’m so so-“

“ah, so here you are, Tuco.”

A smooth voice, dark and drawn. Composed. You whipped your head around and were met by the sight of a tall, tan man silhouetted slightly by the flashing lights of the dancehall behind him, lithe and leaning on the doorframe in a debonair style.

Wait- did he? Also look like a spy movie villain? Did your uncle have a type? I mean, he looks so different from the other guy but- this had to count as a type, right? You could almost bring yourself to laugh over it if you weren’t scared shitless at his presence.

“hey Angel!” a slap on the back, meaning perk back up please, work the hustle with me kid- “sorry I left ya planteado back here, I was hanging out with the kid here.”

“Un placer conocerla” his accent was thick, the drawl somehow more obvious as he labored around the lisps of a proper Spanish accent. “Recibí la invitación de su tío, quien es… un compañero de negocios mío.” Verga, why did that make tío Tuco sound like a gangster. Didn’t he work in like, concert management or something? It was no fair that he could sound so cool (and Tuco’s dopey ‘isn’t he just something?’ smile wasn’t helping you keep a straight face here). Taking the man’s outstretched hand (manicured, long, thin fingers somehow perfectly shaped even though you’d never been the kind of weirdo who thought about what shape hands should be. Or were you? since you noticed? Wait, is tío Tuco into this? He keeps staring, got the subtlety of a piledriver… Shit, the way this was going it was going to be a pain, you sucked at drawing hands-) once you realized you’d been awkwardly staring at it for way too long. You just had to knock him down a peg, as revenge for this.

“So you’re the famous señor Angel Eyes, then? Mucho gusto, I’ve heard so much about you!”

That seemed to draw tío Tuco right out of his haze. Knuckles to your shoulder blade, shut-your-mouth-right-this-second-punk-stick-to-the-plan-okay gesture going totally ignored as you flashed the best smile you could muster at the guy. Damn this gringo was big up close- or maybe he was European? He had an exotic look about him, not least because of that intricately styled mustache (It really was the icing on the cake, for tío Tuco's weird obsession with mustaches to bleed into his taste in men)

“Well, I’m glad to see my reputation precedes me- all good things, I hope?” he was smirking- honest to god smirking!- at tío Tuco, though his eyes crinkled in something more genuine, you guess, because they kept (oh my god is this just how old men flirt?) staring at each other. And you were about to retch from how cursi it all was when you had the bright idea to beat him to the punch about the portrait.

“good things and a favor.”

He finally turned to you, wow okay that feels way too stressful esos ojos están de mi madre –

“a favor?”

“Yeah, a portrait. Would you mind posing for it?” And you had to sell the eye contact here, but you had the vague sense that tío Tuco would almost be fist-pumping at the proposition. Well done kid, I knew I was a good teacher, go sell it-

“of course, how would you have me?” looking again at Tuco, somehow choking a little at the pretty harmless phrase (adults, so weird).

“ay, donde sea. I don’t know about these things” he was so flustered, clambering off the ledge to leave Angel Eyes the space anyway. And so you followed suit, dragging a chair as he settled into a sort of old-fashioned photographic position, leaning on it, hand tucked into the pocket of his dress pants (dios lo bendiga, only one hand to draw) and looking into the middle distance. You turned back to your uncle, would he? But he resolutely stood there staring at his… partner with so much pause that you assumed he wanted a portrait of himself alone, and finally got to work.

Some scratching and smudging later, you had a pretty satisfactory image- some stuff off, as always, but maybe on its way to going well. You signed it and gave a final tug on your uncle’s coat-tails, totally lost for the past couple minutes.

“mira, tío, is this okay?”

Distractedly leaning nearer to you- eyes still locked on his partner, enteramente despampanado- and not looking down until you went to give him a smack on the back of the head.

“oiga chiquilla!-“

“buenos días por la mañana!-“

“you punk, respect your elders!-“

“Tough titty, Viejo de mier-“

Butting heads like a pair of kids, pushing each other until-

“I suppose now I can break position, yes?”

“oh, yes, it’s done, so…”

He walks over, and both of them stare down at it. It’s a little embarrassing, your hands are still full of graphite and you’re trying not to get it all over your dress or the drawing while tío Tuco draws his arm around your shoulders and you hand the sketchpad over to the taller man.

“kid is good, eh?” a little breathless, like he’s as worried as you about how he’s going to take it. But ‘Angel Eyes’ just smiles at it, this time a proper, warm and open smile all the way up to his eyes, you can practically feel tío Tuco overheating at your cheek and you can’t help but agree. This guy might look scary, but if they’re always this good together… a hand on your other shoulder, looking back down at you with a short nod.

“You’ve got talent, kid. You plan to study this?”

“yessir. I’m trying to.” More smiles. Please, señor Angel, you wanna keep having an uncle by tomorrow, this is gonna kill him.

“well, work hard. I know you’ll get it. And thank you,” again to tío Tuco. “for inviting me, and the favor.”

“claro, Ángel.”

(And though all that sentimentality was already a pretty sweet note to end the night on, the both of them sneaking you twenty bucks each while the other was distracted was not at all unwelcome.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was incredibly cursed and I have no idea how it finally got posted, but oh my god it finally got posted. (shoutout to Syb for putting the image of Tuco looking at Blondie playing guitar in my head because that totally came in clutch for this JAJAJAJ)
> 
> and thank you so much to everyone on Tumblr for enjoying the story and being super awesome about it!!!! AAAAA

Dark lacquered wood, pastel-colored upholstery. A warm, dim light helping along the few weak rays of winter sunshine, the ambience completed by a soft, jazzy movie soundtrack playing under the white noise of friendly chatter. The hotel restaurant was plucked right out of an arthouse movie, cute and homely and clearly well-chosen with an eye towards your tastes- a fact you were desperately trying not to lose sight of while you suspiciously sipped on coffee at the invitation of the older man in front of you. 

Between you was a napkin, neatly open from its four-way fold, holding an unskilled but steady sketch with methodically labelled parts. Red camellia, Ivy, edelweiss, heliotrope and-

“tío Tuco? with flowers?”

“Is there anything wrong with the composition?”

A clatter of discordant chords hummed on in the background. His glance is even, and though you’ve been around him long enough that you’re no longer paralyzed, you wish he’d also managed to become a little less unreadable. Especially when he’s this closed-off, and the most you can get is ‘tense’ and ‘weirldy insistent on making eye contact’.

“hmm, no, the sketch helps a lot actually, just… “ (and the irony of this particular truth about your uncle is not lost to you) “You know he’s just gonna call you cueco for that, right?” 

He responds with an easy, clipped-in gesture of his hand and teacup. 

“well, seeing as I’m attempting to marry him that wouldn’t be far off from the truth.”

You respond with a choke that almost spills coffee all over your sweater. 

“uh, sorry, what?” the cheap little laugh you throw in along with it is eminently unconvincing. 

“I’m proposing to your uncle. That’s what the portrait is for.” He says it so casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

And it wouldn’t be shocking if it was anyone else- they’ve been together for what, four years now? But regardless of their chemistry, the whole proposition rubbed you the wrong way. You could never see tío Tuco tied down to something as formal as marriage, and you knew that Angel knew that too, and that he wouldn’t suddenly push for it out of nowhere. There was a stink of something else in everything about it, not least of all bringing you into it and acting so obtuse about it. Further than his usual cool composure, he’s crossed the line into what feels like artifice. And for him to go that far…

It feels like something to get to the bottom of, in any case.

Another sip of coffee, picking up the napkin again, you try for a poker face- congenial, resigned, - and tinge your voice with a touch of admiration (Angel was so good at so many things that most people stopped bothering to acknowledge the effort after a while. It might be the closest thing the man had to a weakness)

“Well, good luck with that. Who knows, maybe by the time I bill you for this you’ll finally let me call you tío Angel.”

A tired smile slipping under his mustache, shoulders finally relaxing at least a smidge, it’s better, but you’re not quite sure it’s good, not when he’s still staring back at you this hard, this distantly. 

“Eso veremos, mija. Eso veremos…”

Looking back on that outing with Angel, this feels almost… extraclimactic? Telenovelaesque? Absolutely fucking balls to the wall stupid? You thought the big secret was gonna be something depressing, like immigration papers or family pressure or something, maybe a job issue. You knew it was gonna be a bit uncomfortable, but nothing about it prepared you for getting a cryptic message from an unknown number (an incredibly shaky photo of a drawing you made as a kid, the address to some dinky local diner), getting motioned over to the back corner booth (‘am I gonna die? What did I do to deserve this? Is this about that one time I stole a pack of gum from a convenience store? What kinda convenience store sends a hitman to kill you over a pack of gum? Is there a way they could’ve like, hidden essential information for a secret operation in that pack of gum that I just stole and ate? Have I been watching too many spy movies?’) all culminating in a no-longer-quite-familiar face.

“Blondie?”

That earns you a shushing and a pointed glare. Green eyes behind his sunglasses (Wearing sunglasses indoors? Neta, ahuevado? Don’t flatter yourself, guy) urge you into silence, though his gaze is less intense now, dark and tired. Up close your guess seems to check out, despite not seeing the man for the better part of a decade, it’s definitely the American. Practically a full beard on him, now, rather than the stubble from before, contrasting against newly-pale skin. He hasn’t aged a minute, but a la gran verga, he looks like shit.

The pair of you sit in relative silence for a while (what are you supposed to say to your full-grown ass uncle’s sad ex-boyfriend? There’s nothing in bro-code about that particular scenario, and something tells you the rules don’t quite apply here anyway), he turns away when the waitress comes to fill your coffee, rubbing his eyes. He just seems so… tired. Everything about him does, and as he brings himself up to speak there’s something of an edge to his voice, a slur that wasn’t there before.

“hey kid. You’ve… grown up some, huh?”

“you haven’t.” slips out of your mouth all-too fast. (oh god why are you like this. You're an adult now, get a grip on yourself.)

More silence. More room to silently curse yourself under as you try to keep an even gaze. Suddenly, he pulls out two palm-sized slips of paper from his wallet.  
“I sent you this already but,” the disintegrating bit of cheap notebook paper lands on the table first. A dedication and a date in your own kiddie handwriting, below a crude caricature of the man himself. Next to it lands… a photograph.

A photograph of your uncle (albeit, one a fair couple of years old).

And it’s certainly a hell of a picture. So many questions (it seems this was an afternoon for questions) Where the hell did they find a porcelain bathtub? Is bubble bath actually supposed to be that pink outside of cartoons? Why is tío Tuco fully dressed inside of a bathtub? Why does the gringo keep this photo in his wallet? Why is he casually handing this off to you, years later, in the back of a diner? Surely not for-

“you still draw, kid?”

You silently swear someday you’ll properly chastise Tuco for pulling this stunt with you on both of his overly intense partners. With how much sanity it’s costing you, that day might involve a lucha libre stadium.

“uh. Yes, I do, but didn’t you, um,” How can you put this in a civil, well-received manner? You know, like a real adult. Diplomatically. “dump him by the roadside and disappear without a word… or something?”

Good one, Lupe. Real smooth.

At least he’s taking it- well, quietly, once again. his expression is unreadable, but he breathes out slowly and tries to keep his eyes on you (what is it with old men and eye contact? Did no-one teach them to say things? You know, with their mouths and vocal cords and shit? Cause him actually saying something sounds really nice about now, instead of just him glaring at you real sad-like). When you don’t let up on your end (‘sorry I don’t have whatever weird mindreading powers all of you seem to have, guy’) he huffs stubbornly and gives in, slouching like a kid.

“Yeah, I left for a while. I was miserable and it was a hard time trying to do anything with all those people breathing down my neck. I had to disappear” it’s hesitant but sounds rehearsed, like he’d spent every shower for the past seven years coming up with that shpiel. “I was young and stupid. But now I’m here, and I wanna make up for it.”

You look between him and the photo, thumbing at the fraying edge. He really does look young- only a little older than you now, which would make Blondie… your age, in all likelihood. Nineteen. You can only imagine what they might’ve been like, then, when they were together. 

But that was then, and this is now. And tío Tuco’s worked so hard to move on from that time- it’s hard to forget the way you felt that first night you’d asked about it, that sudden pause and pallor.

“And you think this is gonna do that?”

“I do.”

Stubborn, resolute. He looks like a kid trying to get away with a later curfew, Arms crossed, all tucked into himself and still staring.

“It’s just a piece of paper.” Going for the jugular again, all instinct- ‘you don’t get to hurt him that way, you’ve already meant enough’. “If you wanna give him that, why not a letter? Shit, why not money, not like you’re terribly in want of that.” 

He breathes out hard like he’s lost a fistfight, but his eyes stay cold and true, still trained on yours.

“If it was about the paper I could’ve gotten anyone to-“

“then what is it about?-”

“it’s-“

Your whisper-shouting match is interrupted by the waitress picking the wrong time to refill the coffee. You stew in silence, choking on your words, he yanks his head downwards and grinds his teeth. It’s somewhere between a hiss and a whisper when he finally speaks.

“It’s about you, kid. It’s about this.” You must be visibly confused, because he goes on, raising his voice as he stutters through the explanation. “you plural- both of- well, all of- it’s ‘I’m coming back, and I’m sorry’, and ‘I mean it and it matters to me’- and it’s ‘I’m willing to’-“ he’s gesturing sharply now, glancing between you and the picture and he’s gotten so loud it’s you who has to stare him down into silence, fading slowly over a phrase. “… to say it. I want to say it to him, and to people. No more- “his whisper fades to pregnant silence that he tries to fill with a look. You can’t read it, or maybe don’t want to.

“no more vanishing acts?” 

A nervous smile, rough around the eyes, anger cracking into a sad resignation.

“Well, no more of that either, yeah. No more hiding.” And with that, you feel the guilt of what he means hit you like a pound of bricks, especially with-

“Angel.”

It’s then that the reason behind all those grandiose suggestions fall into place. ‘Willing to say it’ versus a wedding ring, not much of an even race. Especially since Blondie seems entirely unaware of his part in it.

“I’m aware they’re together now, but-“

“Did you tell him about this?”

A pause.

“He knows. Not- knows about coming back. But not about why.”

A pregnant pause.

“well, maybe you should.” And maybe by exposure you’re finally catching onto this old-man mindreading thing, because he’s perfectly quiet in that moment, but his glance is almost screaming. Too much at once to read, though not all agony, and somewhere still some of that bitter optimism from the beginning of this talk. Above all, he is pleading- to who, you don’t quite know.

You look back at the photo in between you, and think about tío Tuco’s smile, and all the recent memories it calls to mind, of afternoons at a shared house during summer vacation, and soup, and your meager little graduation party two years ago, and the bus in Sonora when your uncle is glued to the phone looking like an idiotic teenager at something Angel has written on the other side. 

And you remember that smile from before, on roadtrips, and showing you the backstage of an empty concert hall, and on an entryway with three stupid pairs of cowboy boots in different sizes, and resting on his hand while he watched Blondie play guitar.

Díos te ampare, you’re about to do something stupid. But it’s for all their sakes. You sigh and put a pen to a coffee-stained napkin.

And this is so breaking the bro code, but you give Blondie his number.

(That is, Angel Eyes’ number.)

(But he doesn’t need to know that, yet.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god writing this chapter was like eating glass but UH I hope y'all enjoy it and if I don't die this month there might be an epilogue or something YEEHAW SEEYA SDGFKNJ

So your uncle knows you, and you know your uncle.

“Do you want a drink for this?”

“muerto quiere misa?”

(so it’s illegal in California, whatever, it isn’t in Mexico! You’re old enough! Who even needs fully-developed brain growth?)

And so both of you might be halfway to shitfaced when the first phrase comes out.

“de donde verga sacas esos hombres tío?” light, exasperated.

He just breaks into an impish smile and says nothing for a while, until exclaiming:

“hmm… perhaps I am irresistible!”

You slap him on the back of the head. He grabs you by the cheeks and shakes your head about. Nothing of value is gained from the exchange, and soon enough you’re left staring down at him with your cheeks still smushed.

So, a heartfelt, understanding look of genuine concern is apparently hilarious combined with scrunched-up cheeks, because tío Tuco is laughing so hard he falls to the floor from his (already risky) lean on the kitchen counter, and you end up laughing with him, slowly sitting down as the din dies out.

So silence is hard to break for two entertainers, and you can feel the cold, tile kitchen floor seep into your legs and start you on sobering up.

“So…” he finally drags out. “to answer your question, well, I met Angel in college.”

“mhm, he’s alluded to that”

“’alluded’… psht. Anyway, I-am-go-nna tell you how! ‘Cause-“ and here the laughter comes up again. “he would never, never tell you how.”

“ahora a maltratar al hombre? Pa qué?”

He ignores you, shoots a conspiratorial smile and fiddles with the cork of the bottle. “it was at a pink theatre.”

“pink like…?”

“yeah, the whole nine miles- like- well, kid, don’t look so shocked! Your tío Tuco had a youth too!”

“Cállate guey, by the time you were young there was totally some other way to get porn!”

“Sure but- it was a novelty! Oye, entusiasmante! And, well, it’s not like people really just go there to uh, get it done and go about their business, si me captas.”

“Santa María la Antigua give me the bottle again I’m gonna need it”

He laughs, “Hey, you asked- I could just not tell if you-“

The fastest gulp and- “okokso- what was Angel doing there? Like, I really doubt he’d- he’s so”

“muy fino, no?” and he’s immediately sparked back into laughter. “nah kid, too classy to tell the story afterwards maybe, but-“ and he fixes his eyes on you, big and brown, sparkling. “you should’ve seen him. Rechingada verga he was so hot! This smooth-faced, smooth-talking bastard- full head of hair back then, tan fucking tierno que no te lo crees- and the eyes, cristo-“

“okay okay we get it your husband is sexy less gushy more talky” (husband? it gets you half a look, a second of silence, but tío Tuco keeps talking)

“He just stared at me the whole time. Lookin’ at me with those-“ all hands, for emphasis. “and he came up to me, chiquilla, he came up to me in the middle of the film and I almost had a heart attack. He tells me- ay, verga, with his fucking voice, you know his voice- he takes his hand and”

He gets quiet, straightens himself up with a blank face tilted downwards. Right as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, he tilts his head up (too fast, he looks ridiculous) and stares right into your eyes again, now in some terrible facsimile of Angel’s piercing gaze. He’s clearly very into this historical recreation, you’re very clearly trying not to laugh. And wordlessly, he lifts his hand- clumsily spread akimbo, like he’s trying to pose it already in midair- touches it to your temple, drags down the face and stops only when the fingertips are barely at the side of your neck.

“how’re you doing tonight?”

And there the laughter breaks out, and you’re probably spitting in his face, because he’s tried to rasp it out in Angel’s smooth drawl but he’s drunk and deep-accented and terrible at impressions, and he’s stood there with a stupid smile on his face trying to scold you and failing.

“what? It’s hot! It’s totally hot! It worked on me, at least, neta, a la verga, kid, you wouldn’t believe what I went through that night.” He looks so genuinely fond of the memory that you can’t help but laugh harder and harder, making faces of mock disgust at him.

“raro! pervertido! Seriously, what the fuck, tío!” you gasp out between peals of laughter.

“Ah, ni te lo creas, ‘cause Angel takes the cake on that- especially back then,” and here, wide-eyed, in mock of fear or of surprise. “you do not wanna know las ahuevazones I got into for that man. Seriously.” He’s shaking his head and laughing along with you now, still smiling like a dope.

You stare back and just stick your tongue at him.

“gross old men. You deserve each other.”

He’s winding down, fiddling the drawstring on his pants. “back then, probably, yeah. We dated a while, but- you know, neither of us are- we weren’t very secure about all of… this back then, for good reason, and well, kids are… you’re living that right now, un dolor de cabeza. So it was a little… well, it ended pretty fast.”

“How did you get together again? Was it… “ a pause, for dramatic effect, wide eyes and a drunken gesture of the head. “destiny?”

You were holding out for a laugh, but instead he stops for a second, and suddenly his silence thickens, and he takes the bottle from your hands- empty- and starts to get up.

“well… it was really ‘cause of Blondie. Because of him leaving.”

Oh. Oh, fuck.

“…so Angel also-?”

“Yeah, well, I basically got them together,” he’s rummaging around the pantry, moving around turned away from you, trying to sound even. You know this trick real well yourself, just like you know he’s patting the wrong shelf for another bottle on purpose. “told Blondie about the label, since I worked with their people, toda esa vaina, so he could start his career.”

“wait, weren’t you with him though? Back then?”

“eh, it was on and off” gives a sheepish look back down at you, still splayed on the floor. “I wasn’t exactly steady, back then. But neither was… well, Blondie’s never been too steady.” He looks tense, but he’s still talking afterwards, now crouching to reach the real shelf the liquor’s in.

“At the time all I knew is that he’d signed on with them- I was working with him, we were on the road a lot, together- but uh, well, once he was gone Angel came to me and the other shoe dropped. I-“ he begins, but he stops himself as he grabs onto a bottle and turns back to you, leaning on the doorframe. He looks spent, more than anything, but there’s a trace of fondness in his eyes, in meeting Angel again, something he’s trying to say in that stupid old-man staredown style of theirs. You can’t quite understand the look, but you know well enough to follow him as he walks into the darkened living room and sinks into the sofa.

Among two blankets and a frankly ridiculous amount of throw pillows, the new bottle is opened (what its number is, you cannot count at this point). Conversation flows with the liquor.

“back then, tío… how did you meet Blondie, then?”

You can hear his breath get sharp with laughter at your left, feel him pass the bottle over.

“At church, si me lo crees.” And you join him in laughing, that exhale half of relief that he finds comedy in it, after everything, mixed in with the surprise.

“O sea, sending mixed messages, tío.”

“hey, don’t let Pablo fool you, most Catholics are human! And- and well, wanting people- wanting- wanting love from people-“ gone past the merry point of drunk, you see the point affect him more, “esa vaina- that’s the most human of all, eh. Wanting…someone.”

And you understand. And you’re quiet a moment, as you drink yourself into silence, and let him speak, and he speaks without pausing.

“so! I was in the Midwest for work, y era un chiquillo, so it was all tech crap for some one-hit-wonder guy o alguna ahuevazon. Fresh outta college... I went to church every weekend, ‘cause I could, and- well, ‘cause I- it reminded me of- they were terrible churches, en la mitad de la nada. They all look the same, all white and wooden, old coot on the organ, just… white people and cornfields. But then- then I get to some place in, díos mio, I don’t even know, some place in Minnesota? And this guy is on the porch, laying there, a- fucking splayed a mile long, skinny as hell- he was so baby faced I almost asked after his parents, kid- holding-“ and here he finally breathes, choking out a laugh, a real, long laugh, “holding a kitten! He was petting this stupid fucking cat in front of the church, daybreak on Sunday- I was totalmente en cruda, drank way too much back then, and I just stood there and stared at him for the better part of an hour, practically missed the service, and he said nothing. Just sitting pretty… When I came out of church he was still there, and I asked him to dinner, and- well- yeah. That was Blondie. “

You try to pass the bottle to him, but he’s pretty gone at this point, and he grabs onto your hand instead, puts his over yours over the neck of the bottle, keeps talking.

“he played guitar for me, that night- he has- he had a voice- santa maría. He had a voice…”

“I’m sorry” you blurt out. “I’m sorry I- I- I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when he showed up again and he wanted to see you ‘cause I was scared about you and Angel and- and- I thought he was just a- I didn’t know he- I-“

And he pulls you close, for a real hug, and takes the bottle from your hands and holds you in his arms in a way you’ve both not allowed for quite a time. And he’s warm, and you can feel his mustache scratch the top of your head, and your neck aches a little from the awkward position of bending down to fit on top of his shoulder. And he’s warm.

“Hey. It’s okay, kid. You did okay.”

So you stay like that a while, while you work to still your crying. And you can almost hear his indecisive little hums of some not-too-off-key lullaby, like you’re a kid again, making a fuss about staying up late at Christmas dinner.

“so how did it go, in the end?” you ask. It feels risky, and tentative, and not all there. But you ask, and you worry.

“Bueno,” he stalls. “Supuestamente, he called up Angel that same day and they spoke.” A tired sigh brushes along your shoulder, inaudible. “about what, ni idea. He wouldn’t speak to me when I saw him, and Angel said nothing. He just kind of… sat here and stared at me, really. You know us,” a comforting pat on your head now, as you pulled away into a more comfortable lean against each other. “Too stupid to cry.” 

“psht, con eso queda corto.” It wasn’t too hard to imagine that, the three of them staring each other down like some sort of standoff, not saying a word. “so… is that it? Did he just… look at you and leave, like that?”

“No- well, he tried to leave, but…” fiddling with the blanket on his lap- cozy, muddy green, with some sort of white geometric pattern on it- staring down at it like an old friend. “I got him to spend the night. And he’s… a lot, the asshole, but he’s here, at least.” With this he gets up, old bones almost creaking, and walks over to the light. Easier steps, breathing even again. “No talking yet, but he hangs around. We got him to shower- dios santo, you saw him, how he was, purquísimo- and he helps Angel cook and all.” The lights come on and your eyes burn a little, make you clumsy as you follow him back into the hall, into the entryway. You lean on the wall opposite him, on the doorframe, and he looks at the coatrack and smiles proudly at nothing, at four pegs where there used to be two of them, at his eye-melting windbreaker and the trench coat you came in, and Angel’s hat that he must’ve forgotten, and the last empty peg in between.

“and he laughs. He laughs a lot now, not loudly, but he’s smiling. I missed that.”

And he looks back at you, serious now, almost embarrassed, and he puts a heavy hand on your shoulder to speak.

“Gracias, Lupe.”

You look down at him (‘Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shut up! I’m gonna cry! Shut up!’) and you look back at the coatrack. Four pegs.

“Gracias a ti, tío. I… I really love you guys.”

More silence, more stupid, stoic silence.

“verga, kid, are we just gonna stand here and cry again?”

“pssht. Fucking hipócrita, you’re the one who started it!”

You slap him on the back of the head. He grabs you by the cheeks and shakes your head about. The exchange feels grand, somehow important. It feels like home.

“Ahora ven y ayudame a guardar las botellas, Angel’ll kill us if it’s like this once they get back.”

“yeah, yeah. But hey, tío, one more question.”

“qué va?”

“Can you tell me where the fuck being fully clothed in a bubble bath factors into this?”


End file.
